You Need To Tell John
by A-Thieving-magpie
Summary: An updated,re-written version of a story I published on here then deleted about two years ago. Set after TRF, Sherlock decides to return home to John, but all is not well. Contains whump, Hurt/comfort, sassy Mycroft, emotionally repressed Sherlockand some brotherly moments.
1. Chapter 1

"You need to tell John." Said Mycroft, without looking up from his newspaper.

His younger brother had just entered his office, without knocking as usual, and thrown himself down in Mycroft's favourite armchair. He made a point of making as much noise as possible as he sat down. Mycroft was sat at his desk looking over the morning's papers with his usual grim expression.

"Why?" Replied Sherlock incredulously, looking up at his older brother.

"You know why Sherlock, because it's not fair on him. He's been tearing himself apart over all this." Mycroft was still staring at the newspaper, his eyes moving from side to side, scanning and taking in the whole page.

Sherlock huffed, "Since when did you_ care _so much?"

Mycroft turned the page, not answering Sherlock's question.

"How did you know?" Sherlock asked when Mycroft remained silent still.

"What, that you'd faked it? Oh come on, credit me with some intelligence Sherlock. Now are you going to tell John or am I going to have to do it for you?" Mycroft finally tore himself away from the paper to look at Sherlock with a condescending glare.

"It's been three weeks. He'll be over me by now." Sherlock waved a hand dismissively.

Mycroft just looked at him.

"What?"

"Do you really think so?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock bit his lip, thinking.

"I'm still not telling him. I'll just disappear somewhere, start again..."

"Yes and all this time the world thinks you're a fake!"

"I don't care."

"Yes you do. You do because, what if John starts to believe it? You care what he thinks, don't you?"

Sherlock didn't reply.

"Look, Moriarty is no longer a threat to you Sherlock. He's dead and I've personally seen to it that his organisation has disbanded. We've even managed to capture his right-hand man. A sniper by the name of Moran. It was strange actually, he was found with Moriarty's body on the roof in an absolute wreck. He's attempted suicide twice so far, apparently distraught by Moriarty's demise. We're keeping a closer eye on him now..."

"Why are you telling me all this?" Sherlock interrupted.

"To try and make you see that it's not all about you Sherlock!" Mycroft raised his voice, losing patience with his younger brother. "Other people have been hurt by this, especially John. Moriarty is dead, therefore there is nothing stopping you going back to John and apologising for all the grief you put him through over your apparent death!"

There was a silence.

Sherlock sat staring at the carpet. He knew his older brother was right, and why was he even refusing to go back to John anyway? Was he scared of how he might react? Scared John would completely reject him? Sherlock had been shunned by people all his life, and John was the first person who had been a friend to him. Sherlock may have seemed heartless and cold to the rest of the world, but deep down he was still human. He needed friendship and he didn't think he could stand being rejected by the only person who had ever offered him that.

"You need him Sherlock and he needs you." Mycroft's voice was softer now "and God knows, I need John too. What you'd get up to without him around... I'd be picking up the pieces just like before."

Sherlock stood up and made his way to the door of the office without a word. Just as he opened the door Mycroft spoke again.

"By the way, how did you get in here?"

"What?"

"Please, Sherlock. We're ten metres underground in a top security location. People can't just walk in here. Especially people who are meant to be dead."

"Well, you weren't exactly surprised to see me."

"I know what you're like, Sherlock."

He chuckled as he closed the door to Mycroft's office and made off down the corridor, the back of his coat swishing as he walked.


	2. Chapter 2

Dawn was just breaking over London and wispy clouds seemed to cling onto the pink sky. The sun was just peeking over the horizon, casting long shadows on the ground below. Despite the sun it was a bitterly cold morning and Sherlock nuzzled his face into his coat and scarf as he walked, his breath rising in foggy swirls. His mind was racing, even more than usual, working through every possible scenario that could now occur.

As he turned into Baker Street he felt a strange sensation, a completely new feeling to him. It was dread. Usually a master of control over his own feelings, this was worrying to Sherlock and he was annoyed with himself. It was only John, nothing to be afraid of. Then he realised he wasn't afraid of John, he was afraid _for_ him. How he'd cope with knowing he'd been lied to, how he'd cope with seeing someone he knew to be dead. Despite giving the appearance of not caring about or understanding his friends emotions, Sherlock had a deep affection for the man and dreaded having to face him now he'd caused John so much grief.

The early risers of Baker Street were just opening their curtains as Sherlock reached number 221B. John wouldn't be up yet, he always slept in on a Sunday. A cyclist whizzed past him on the pavement, almost knocking him over and Sherlock grumbled "cycling on the pavement...idiot... "

He quietly unlocked the door – he still had the key- and slowly padded up the stairs.

As he entered the flat he had left only three weeks ago he felt a sense of belonging. Everything was exactly as it had been left, and a familiar scent still lingered in the air. It was a peculiar mix of gunpowder, chemicals, must and the vanilla air freshener John always used in a vain attempt to cover up the odours of Sherlock's various experiments.  
>Sherlock shrugged off his coat and settled himself on the sofa. He placed his slender fingers together under his chin and started again mentally running through the possible situations that could occur when John found out he was alive. He found his palms getting sweaty and cursed himself. Honestly, he needed to be more controlled and logical. He couldn't afford to become emotional.<p>

He had waited for ten minutes when he heard footsteps coming from upstairs.

This was it.

The door to the lounge creaked open and Sherlock looked up cautiously. A figure stood in the doorway, but it wasn't John.

It was a woman, petite with short black hair and a sinister smile stretched across her bare face. She wore dark tight jeans, boots, a black t shirt and brown fitted jacket. She opened the jacket to reveal the pistol holstered under her arm.

"Who the..." Sherlock started  
>"You shouldn't have come here Mr Holmes -"<p>

"Where's John."

"Oh your little pet? Don't worry about him. He'll be fine...for now."

Sherlock jumped up and advanced towards the woman.

"I swear to God if you touch him I will hunt you down and -"

But she cut him off again.

"Jim Moriarty sends his regards."

She raised the pistol and turned it on its side.

Sherlock's eyes widened as he stared down the barrel.


End file.
